Die, fluff, die!
Basically I got bored with reading all the Red Sox fic out there that was Bronson Arroyo being a big girl, followed by 5 paragraphs praising Jason Varitek's thighs, followed by someone doing something dumb and/or cute and everyone 'aww'ing. That stuff is OK in small doses (although why is Bronson always written so... like that? Why, why, why? Actually, why are some guys always written so stereotypically submissive in slash fic anyways? We especially among fic writers are dealing with baseball players, can we PLEASE stop writing them as something deeply unlikely to survive in MLB without a hell of a lot of explanation? woo hey didn't mean to rant), I guess, but it was starting to seem like ALL THE RED SOX FIC OUT THERE WAS LIKE THAT. And, I dunno, I'm getting kind of sick of it. It's giving Sox fic a bad name, yo!
So, well, it's not as though this is any better, but I guess the hope is that it's a little different.
I feel like it should be longer, but eh. I'm kind of stuck.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It is in no way a reflection on the actual life, behavior, or character of any of the people featured, and there is no connection or affiliation between this fictional story and the people or organizations it mentions. It was not written with any intent to slander or defame any of the people featured. No profit has been or ever will be made as a result of this story: it is solely for entertainment. And again, it is entirely fictional, i.e. not true.
----------
Another Perspective
The very first thing he notices is that everyone is always laughing. Everything is a joke, and if it's not it'll be made into one before the day is out. Wives are for ribald jokes, injuries are for immature jokes, batting slumps are for pointed jokes, kids are for gentle jokes, management is for irate jokes. Everyone has an inside joke with everyone else and Alex feels lost in a maze of unpadded benches and open lockers, words flying all around and not making any sense, but still everyone else is laughing at them, it's funny if you were there.
Manny throws an arm over his shoulders and laughs for no reason, Don't worry man, don't worry Cora my Indian buddy, you'll pick it up soon, you stick around long enough and the jokes'll just come to you, man, for sure. "You like applesauce, man, you got a spoon?" Manny asks, eyes wide and guileless, and Alex has no idea what he's talking about, it doesn't make any sense at all, but everyone else bursts out laughing, Ortiz booming with mirth, Mueller chuckling quietly, everything in between, and Alex figures he'll learn the joke soon enough. Just as soon as he gets some games under his belt. Just as soon as he starts hitting.
The second thing he notices is that everyone's laughter is just a bit desperate.
----------------------------
Cleveland was one thing, a thing where you went out and you played baseball and you had a nice moderate number of fans in the stands every night and you had a nice moderate bunch of sportswriters asking mild questions and worrying about management in a round-about way, in the way that was like they covered a baseball team and someone had told them that the thing for a reporter to do, a reporter who covered baseball, the thing to do was worry about management. There was an indian drum that would play a steady beat when the other team was pitching and the crowd would clap along. Everyone is pleasantly surprised at how they're doing, and no one really expects them to catch the White Sox or the Twins anyways, not this year. The word 'wildcard' floats in the air but there's nothing urgent about it, more a polite inquiry, oh by the way while you're out there maybe you could...?
Alex was always a little embarassed by the indian face on his hat, the bright red thread and the wide round grin, he didn't know any Native Americans personally, but if he did he wouldn't want to be in uniform around them, would want to turn his hat inside out and upside down. Just under half a year with Cleveland and he thinks he's starting to get the American League down, starting to feel like his head's stopped spinning, which it hadn't done since he'd been told he wasn't a Dodger anymore, for the first time since 1996, when he left college and stopped thinking in orange and green, started thinking in deep ocean blue and in sunblind white.
He's just starting to think in terms of 'pitcher, pitcher only', in shades of red and deeper blue. He's starting to think in terms of midwestern accents asking for his autograph, not that that happens too often, but on the rare occasion it does, a soft pull on the vowels that bends them all out of shape. His english is pretty good, went to college in Miami and all, but still he has to learn the voices, learn to listen carefully until he gets used to the sound of it. No one's hitting all that well but they're winning games anyways, and people are calling Hafner the next homerun king, and they're calling Grady Sizemore the Next Big Thing. Their starters can do no wrong and the light towers are tall and thin.
"Boston," says the message on his cell phone, and Alex Cora thinks, "Fuck." He has to learn a whole new accent.
----------------------------
He's come in at a bad time. That's what they assure him. It's not always like this, usually it's a lot more fun, these injuries, they just get you down. Alex looks closely at the guys who've been here the longest, though, looks at their eyes. Nixon's eyes are a little dogmatic, a little stubborn; Wakefield's eyes are a little knowing, a little sad; Varitek's eyes are a little quick and a little concerned. But they're all flecked with just a tiny bit of dull, just the tiniest bit of deadness back behind the pupils. It rolls out like a cataract when the media shows up, a thick gray shutter, and Alex wonders that no one else ever seems to notice it. He looks at the reporters and they're sharp as knives, every pen a tiny sword, and he looks at the tiny spot of dead in the guys who've been here the longest.
Defense mechanism, he thinks. Or: scar tissue.
The newer guys go at the media live and bright and wild and even when it doesn't set off some sort of controversy, which everything these days seemingly does, even when it's harmless and everyone comes out of it looking good, Alex can see it cutting into them, taking a little something out. The pens leaving with a gathering of droplets of blood on the tips, but no one notices, because it's the same color as their socks, it's the same color as the letters on their chests, and that's just how it is here.
A place that's used to greatness, and he can see that Matt Clement is having a tremendous season, is throwing well enough to earn himself endless praise in another place, but here he sees eyes that flick up and don't see a mass of untamed Dominican curls, eyes that flick down and see pristine unbloodied socks, eyes that don't see anything you could call a rocket. Alex sees a damn good pitcher and something to celebrate, but everyone else sees the pitcher that isn't there, the pitcher that got away, the pitcher that fell down. Greatness in your past was always something Alex saw as a bonus for a team, something they could all revere and strive for, but sometimes he wonders if maybe being used to 'great' meant that you could never enjoy, could barely even see, 'good'.
----------------------------
Still getting used to calling an American League park home, and suddenly Alex finds himself in Fenway Park, not just an American League park but really sort of the American League park, and suddenly it's his. Home, he thinks. During warmups he runs into the outfield, runs until he has warning track dirt reddening his cleats, running until he's at a place where ground meets wall, where there's no advertising for a precious few feet. He reaches out and he touches the Monster, pushing with his fingertips until it almost feels like it's pushing back. He looks up and sees green green green straight up into the sky and he can tell his friends now. I touched the Green Monster. I played there, and that was my home park, grass green wall all along the outfield, it had my back when I was in the field and I looked at it when I was batting, that was home.
All of the mad stuff he heard during the World Series turns out to be true. Johnny Damon really does go around everywhere naked. Bronson Arroyo really does sneak his own CD into the clubhouse stereo. Mike Myers really does try to read in quiet times, and the team really does bother him until he has to roll his eyes and sigh and go sit in on the relief pitcher poker game at the little folding table in the corner. There's a prize fighter's championship belt that passes into the posession of whoever's been the funniest lately, and everyone shares jerseys in batting practice, you can never call someone by the name on the back of their shirt, because Ortiz will really be Nixon and Embree will really be Timlin.
He sees photos of Kevin Youkilis in the cheerleader uniform, which makes him laugh, and he sees photos of Kevin Millar without a shirt on, which makes him retch. He sees photos of a man with a ridiculously sculpted bare chest and a handsome grin, taped up in several lockers, and when he finally asks what the deal with the male model is, eight eager voices tell him about their old teammate, Gabe Kapler, he went to Japan you see, but you might get to meet him sooner rather than later, if what we've heard is true.
When someone does well in a game they get at least one enormous hug, and usually more.
On the road there are Red Sox hats everywhere, and even if they're not rooting for him, not really, not yet, it still overwhelms him to see. He used to get excited when the Dodgers went on the road and he spotted one, two, five, ten Dodgers hats in the foreign park. Look at that, we're bringing our fans into your house. But this is on a whole other order of magnitude, because when the Red Sox travel sometimes it's impossible to hear the locals over the "Let's go Red Sox!" chants.
The crowd at home sings this song, Sweet Caroline, and everyone sings it, every single one. Oh oh oh, and something about good times never being so good, so good. He thinks that there must a reason, Caroline is some longdead Boston hero or icon, they sing it every single home game so it’s got to mean something, right, so he asks aloud on the bench, How come they sing that, what’s it mean?
Everyone shrugs, and ‘dunno’s, and Millar says that he thinks it’s just one of those things, one of those Boston things that started happening and just kept on happening and now it’s Tradition, just sort of because.
Alex thinks about that, a city so deep in history and a team so deep in the city that ironclad tradition springs up like dandelions among the grass. He watches Manny lean up against Millar, get his fingers tangled in the hair at the back of Millar’s head, and that was part of the World Series run last year, that’s kind of history too.
He can see why this would be a good place to play, why this would be a good team to play for. He can see how this could be good.
And yet.
Maybe that's long enough? I dunno. Might pick at it later, might not, but I figure I may as well post something in here since I haven't in a bit.
So, well, it's not as though this is any better, but I guess the hope is that it's a little different.
I feel like it should be longer, but eh. I'm kind of stuck.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It is in no way a reflection on the actual life, behavior, or character of any of the people featured, and there is no connection or affiliation between this fictional story and the people or organizations it mentions. It was not written with any intent to slander or defame any of the people featured. No profit has been or ever will be made as a result of this story: it is solely for entertainment. And again, it is entirely fictional, i.e. not true.
----------
Another Perspective
The very first thing he notices is that everyone is always laughing. Everything is a joke, and if it's not it'll be made into one before the day is out. Wives are for ribald jokes, injuries are for immature jokes, batting slumps are for pointed jokes, kids are for gentle jokes, management is for irate jokes. Everyone has an inside joke with everyone else and Alex feels lost in a maze of unpadded benches and open lockers, words flying all around and not making any sense, but still everyone else is laughing at them, it's funny if you were there.
Manny throws an arm over his shoulders and laughs for no reason, Don't worry man, don't worry Cora my Indian buddy, you'll pick it up soon, you stick around long enough and the jokes'll just come to you, man, for sure. "You like applesauce, man, you got a spoon?" Manny asks, eyes wide and guileless, and Alex has no idea what he's talking about, it doesn't make any sense at all, but everyone else bursts out laughing, Ortiz booming with mirth, Mueller chuckling quietly, everything in between, and Alex figures he'll learn the joke soon enough. Just as soon as he gets some games under his belt. Just as soon as he starts hitting.
The second thing he notices is that everyone's laughter is just a bit desperate.
----------------------------
Cleveland was one thing, a thing where you went out and you played baseball and you had a nice moderate number of fans in the stands every night and you had a nice moderate bunch of sportswriters asking mild questions and worrying about management in a round-about way, in the way that was like they covered a baseball team and someone had told them that the thing for a reporter to do, a reporter who covered baseball, the thing to do was worry about management. There was an indian drum that would play a steady beat when the other team was pitching and the crowd would clap along. Everyone is pleasantly surprised at how they're doing, and no one really expects them to catch the White Sox or the Twins anyways, not this year. The word 'wildcard' floats in the air but there's nothing urgent about it, more a polite inquiry, oh by the way while you're out there maybe you could...?
Alex was always a little embarassed by the indian face on his hat, the bright red thread and the wide round grin, he didn't know any Native Americans personally, but if he did he wouldn't want to be in uniform around them, would want to turn his hat inside out and upside down. Just under half a year with Cleveland and he thinks he's starting to get the American League down, starting to feel like his head's stopped spinning, which it hadn't done since he'd been told he wasn't a Dodger anymore, for the first time since 1996, when he left college and stopped thinking in orange and green, started thinking in deep ocean blue and in sunblind white.
He's just starting to think in terms of 'pitcher, pitcher only', in shades of red and deeper blue. He's starting to think in terms of midwestern accents asking for his autograph, not that that happens too often, but on the rare occasion it does, a soft pull on the vowels that bends them all out of shape. His english is pretty good, went to college in Miami and all, but still he has to learn the voices, learn to listen carefully until he gets used to the sound of it. No one's hitting all that well but they're winning games anyways, and people are calling Hafner the next homerun king, and they're calling Grady Sizemore the Next Big Thing. Their starters can do no wrong and the light towers are tall and thin.
"Boston," says the message on his cell phone, and Alex Cora thinks, "Fuck." He has to learn a whole new accent.
----------------------------
He's come in at a bad time. That's what they assure him. It's not always like this, usually it's a lot more fun, these injuries, they just get you down. Alex looks closely at the guys who've been here the longest, though, looks at their eyes. Nixon's eyes are a little dogmatic, a little stubborn; Wakefield's eyes are a little knowing, a little sad; Varitek's eyes are a little quick and a little concerned. But they're all flecked with just a tiny bit of dull, just the tiniest bit of deadness back behind the pupils. It rolls out like a cataract when the media shows up, a thick gray shutter, and Alex wonders that no one else ever seems to notice it. He looks at the reporters and they're sharp as knives, every pen a tiny sword, and he looks at the tiny spot of dead in the guys who've been here the longest.
Defense mechanism, he thinks. Or: scar tissue.
The newer guys go at the media live and bright and wild and even when it doesn't set off some sort of controversy, which everything these days seemingly does, even when it's harmless and everyone comes out of it looking good, Alex can see it cutting into them, taking a little something out. The pens leaving with a gathering of droplets of blood on the tips, but no one notices, because it's the same color as their socks, it's the same color as the letters on their chests, and that's just how it is here.
A place that's used to greatness, and he can see that Matt Clement is having a tremendous season, is throwing well enough to earn himself endless praise in another place, but here he sees eyes that flick up and don't see a mass of untamed Dominican curls, eyes that flick down and see pristine unbloodied socks, eyes that don't see anything you could call a rocket. Alex sees a damn good pitcher and something to celebrate, but everyone else sees the pitcher that isn't there, the pitcher that got away, the pitcher that fell down. Greatness in your past was always something Alex saw as a bonus for a team, something they could all revere and strive for, but sometimes he wonders if maybe being used to 'great' meant that you could never enjoy, could barely even see, 'good'.
----------------------------
Still getting used to calling an American League park home, and suddenly Alex finds himself in Fenway Park, not just an American League park but really sort of the American League park, and suddenly it's his. Home, he thinks. During warmups he runs into the outfield, runs until he has warning track dirt reddening his cleats, running until he's at a place where ground meets wall, where there's no advertising for a precious few feet. He reaches out and he touches the Monster, pushing with his fingertips until it almost feels like it's pushing back. He looks up and sees green green green straight up into the sky and he can tell his friends now. I touched the Green Monster. I played there, and that was my home park, grass green wall all along the outfield, it had my back when I was in the field and I looked at it when I was batting, that was home.
All of the mad stuff he heard during the World Series turns out to be true. Johnny Damon really does go around everywhere naked. Bronson Arroyo really does sneak his own CD into the clubhouse stereo. Mike Myers really does try to read in quiet times, and the team really does bother him until he has to roll his eyes and sigh and go sit in on the relief pitcher poker game at the little folding table in the corner. There's a prize fighter's championship belt that passes into the posession of whoever's been the funniest lately, and everyone shares jerseys in batting practice, you can never call someone by the name on the back of their shirt, because Ortiz will really be Nixon and Embree will really be Timlin.
He sees photos of Kevin Youkilis in the cheerleader uniform, which makes him laugh, and he sees photos of Kevin Millar without a shirt on, which makes him retch. He sees photos of a man with a ridiculously sculpted bare chest and a handsome grin, taped up in several lockers, and when he finally asks what the deal with the male model is, eight eager voices tell him about their old teammate, Gabe Kapler, he went to Japan you see, but you might get to meet him sooner rather than later, if what we've heard is true.
When someone does well in a game they get at least one enormous hug, and usually more.
On the road there are Red Sox hats everywhere, and even if they're not rooting for him, not really, not yet, it still overwhelms him to see. He used to get excited when the Dodgers went on the road and he spotted one, two, five, ten Dodgers hats in the foreign park. Look at that, we're bringing our fans into your house. But this is on a whole other order of magnitude, because when the Red Sox travel sometimes it's impossible to hear the locals over the "Let's go Red Sox!" chants.
The crowd at home sings this song, Sweet Caroline, and everyone sings it, every single one. Oh oh oh, and something about good times never being so good, so good. He thinks that there must a reason, Caroline is some longdead Boston hero or icon, they sing it every single home game so it’s got to mean something, right, so he asks aloud on the bench, How come they sing that, what’s it mean?
Everyone shrugs, and ‘dunno’s, and Millar says that he thinks it’s just one of those things, one of those Boston things that started happening and just kept on happening and now it’s Tradition, just sort of because.
Alex thinks about that, a city so deep in history and a team so deep in the city that ironclad tradition springs up like dandelions among the grass. He watches Manny lean up against Millar, get his fingers tangled in the hair at the back of Millar’s head, and that was part of the World Series run last year, that’s kind of history too.
He can see why this would be a good place to play, why this would be a good team to play for. He can see how this could be good.
And yet.
Maybe that's long enough? I dunno. Might pick at it later, might not, but I figure I may as well post something in here since I haven't in a bit.